


Who Do You See?

by AnotherWorld3111



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Gen, Hallucinations, Horror, Mental Breakdown, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 06:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20616629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherWorld3111/pseuds/AnotherWorld3111
Summary: With Dean struggling with recent events (the Mark of Cain,same circumstances, I wouldn't) someone decides to test how well Dean really has a grip on things.The thing is, he doesn't, and the control he tries so hard to keep was never in his hands anyway. A game is played, and Dean is more than a pawn to forces he doesn't understand, a game he can't come close to comprehend. Along the ride, a question arises: are his opponents fellow pawns, or something far greater?





	Who Do You See?

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this entire thing in an actual notebook. I thought I'd have written 5k or something, so typing this and realizing I apparently wrote around 11k was a huge shocker, and yet I can't help but feel smug and proud.  
That being said, I have no idea if I'll ever be able to write an entire frigging fic in an actual notebook again. Except I only used up 75 pages out of a 200-page notebook, and it feels weird to have not even fill up the entire thing and just put the book away... so we'll see

Dean hissed. He figured he’d become truly desperate if he’d resorted to running his arm under cold water. But if he was, then so be it, because while the rest of his skin had long since gone numb from the ice-cold water, the Mark flared, a searing hot brand.

When his arm threatened to fall off into the sink, Dean mentally able to hear the ice chunk of a limb clattering around, he turned the tap off. Half an hour, he’d stood there freezing his arm off at the elbow, and all he got for it was jack squat. At least he didn’t have to worry about the bunker receiving an undoubtedly hefty water bill.

“Case five hours away!” Sam pounded on his closed bedroom door. Jumping, Dean forced his heart to calm down as he clicked his gun’s safety back on. “You coming?”

Dean swallowed, regarding himself in the mirror atop his sink. Apart from the dark bags under his eyes and the stubble he simply didn’t have the energy to shave, Dean Winchester looked as hale and healthy as ever.

“Be in the car in five.” He grunted back. He wasn’t surprised when there wasn’t a reply. Although it did leave him wondering if Sam had really bothered to stop by and inform him of the case… or if he’d imagined that up too.

“Wouldn’t be the first time, hm?” Behind him, Dean’s eyes shot up to look over his shoulder through the mirror, tensing when all Abaddon did was to stand in place and smirk. 

“Shut up,” he muttered. His left hand clamped over the Mark he’d so far refused to touch. The sensation caused colors to explode, blinding him. Through the searing pain, Dean gritted his teeth when Abaddon flickered, but disappointingly didn’t completely disappear from view.

She tsked, face a mask of mock pain. His right hand gripped the sink with blue fingers when she stepped forward, his eyes closing when her ice-cold hand slipped under his left, stroking the Mark.

Dean gasped, eyes flying open as his entire body, Mark included, felt like he was abruptly plunged into the merciless depths of the Pacific.

“You’re getting late, Dean,” Abaddon whispered into his ear.

Abruptly, the sensations all disappeared, except for the Mark’s renewed burning with a vengeance.

When he turned around, he was all alone in his room.

oOo

“Leave. Me. Alone!”

Dean grunted as his back collided with the wall. The words continued to echo long after the bout of dizziness passed, but he didn’t stop to linger on it.

“Yeah, not how it works, sweetheart,” he quipped at one deceased Emily Hawkins. Casting a dry smile as he breathed heavily through his open mouth, Dean took in his surroundings.

His shotgun was on the other side of the room. Unfortunately, the thirteen-year-old girl stood right between him and his only effective weapon.

The ghost – and no, pityingly, it wasn’t puberty making this girl so demonic. Well, not just puberty, but it certainly wasn’t only just hitting  _ her  _ so hard – snarled, before disappearing.

Dean swore, scrambling forward.

Sam was down in the basement, looking for the girl’s bones, while Dean unwittingly became the distraction, the ghost hell-bent on kicking him out of her house. Why she kept after him like a dog with a bone and wasn’t going after his br–Sammy, he had no idea, but Dean wasn’t going to go around jinxing things up by thinking about that for too long.

Right as his fingers grazed metal, his shirt was roughly ranked at the collar, and Dean was airborne again.

_ So getting tired of this,  _ Dean thought, keeping his eyes closed to avoid watching himself slam headfirst into an old fireplace.

Fighting to hold onto consciousness, he didn’t register the ringing in his ears until he squeezed the trigger, rock salt hitting the ghost square in the chest despite Dean’s closed-eyed. The ghost vanished with a small shriek, and Dean let his head fall back down, most of his upper body still in the – thankfully – unlit fireplace.

Remember how Dean hadn’t wanted to jinx things up? Well, clearly, he should’ve been more careful, because the fireplace chose that moment to light up.

oOo

Sam refused to voice his thoughts, but the nagging sensation of something being wrong was firmly lodged in his gut and wouldn’t leave. It didn’t help that while every fiber in his body screamed for distance from Dean, the stones in his gut became more pronounced with their once he and Dean split up. He tried hard to stop thinking at that point, setting to his task while keeping his mind numb. It wasn’t an easy feat, Sam finding his mind constantly straying and having to tug it back from wandering – like an overzealous dog on a leash – every few seconds. His frustration grew each time Sam had to redirect his thoughts, and it soon started to appear in his actions. Doors went flying open in Sam’s wake, floorboards even the slightest bit loose torn in half. If Dean wasn’t keeping the ghost sufficiently distracted, then they were going to have to switch roles once the spirit came after Sam what with all the havoc he was creating.

If there was a problem with that, Sam didn’t see it. He was shaking with far too much barely-restrained energy, as it was. So it was probably a good thing that the next wallboard tugged open revealed a curled up skeleton, just as the building shook, more furiously than before.

Annoyed that his automatic reaction wasn’t to go ahead and light the sucker up, Sam stilled. His muscles were tense as his ears strained, waiting for even the slightest indication that Dean was still doing his job. They both had only one thing to do, and it was relatively simple too.

The pointed thought only served to mentally smack Sam and remind him of his own duties.

Casting an uncertain glance between the long since decomposed corpse and the ceiling, San forced his body to move. Yet, his spine was rigid, Sam gar more aware of his surroundings for all that his eyes were trained on his own movements of salting and burning up the skeleton.

As flames jumped into existence, eating up Hawkin’s corpse, Sam heard a faint screech, most probably from the girl’s spirit herself. What had Sam bolting upstairs though, was that there hadn't been any other sounds whatsoever. If Dean ended up being perfectly fine despite the silence that teased otherwise, Sam was gonna salt and burn Dean too. More or less.

oOo

Dean wasn’t fine. He could hear Sammy bolting up the stairs like the clumsy moose he was, and he knew if he didn’t open his eyes at the very least, the protests of otherwise waiting readily at his tongue wouldn’t be convincing at all.

“That’s even assuming Sammy’s going to care enough to ask and, honestly? Don’t you think that’s a little too much wishful thinking for you there, Dean?” Abaddon’s voice was menacingly taunting as she voiced his thoughts for him. He stubbornly refused to react, even though it was mostly because Dean genuinely couldn’t.

If Abaddon had anything more to say, she didn’t get the chance to, because that’s when Sam appeared, Dean managing to open his eyes in time to see Sam looking murderous. A chill – Dean would have snorted at the irony of that – ran down Dean’s spine when he realized… he didn’t know whose presence he would’ve been better off with and if he was even relieved that Sam had arrived after all.

“I’m flattered,” Abaddon crooned. Dean didn’t look at her, eyes frozen on his approaching brother. “You’d really consider me better company than your little brother? Seriously –  _ me? _ ”

He didn’t respond, not to Abaddon, not to Sam, whose lips were moving but Dean unable to hear a single word. Dean blinked… except before he could wonder if he got around to the eye-opening part of that action because everything was still black… his muscles went liquid lax, and then Dean stopped thinking completely.

oOo

When he woke up, Dean was sufficiently distorted. He tried blinking, but the sight of his room’s ceiling in the bunker didn’t waver.

Dean closed his eyes again. He gave himself some time to just breathe as he wracked through his brain. He remembered icy cold fingers, frosty air between him and Sam (as was the norm lately), going on a hunt, and falling into a fireplace. Which sprang to life when he was still mostly in it. After that, though, his memories became spotty, occasional glimpses of his brother and…

Right. His charred legs, and throwing up at one point. Or was that Sam? Either way, one of them had thrown up, but Dean was sure that out of the two of them, he was the one who’d been barbecued.

Getting his arms under himself, Dean pushed himself up and immediately fell back again, tears springing to his eyes as he cursed.

It was definitely Dean who’d thrown up, he decided when the white cleared up from his vision. All he had managed to catch was a glimpse of the abundant amount of bandages loosely wrapped around his legs, but it was the sensation that had Dean struggling to regain proper control of his breathing. Like he was still on fire, but shouldn’t his nerve endings have been burned off? Had his jeans prevented some more serious damage from occurring, or maybe it was some sort of post-traumatic thing, his body replaying whatever torture he’d been subjected to while unconscious. It’d never happened before, Dean didn’t think, but when was the last time he’d almost been burned alive anyw–

“Dean?” Snapped out of his thoughts, he swiftly blinked away the tears he had no recollection of shedding. Once he was more composed, Dean tilted his head to the door. He’d already learned his lesson, thanks, and had no wish to undergo the pain of moving any more than chest up again, not if he could avoid it.

His brother stood at the doorway, not coming in. His hands were tucked in his pockets, and when Dean met his gaze, Sam exhaled heavily. He nodded, seemingly to himself.

“You’re awake,” he observed brilliantly. Dean didn’t hold himself back from rolling his eyes at Sam.

“How long was I out?” He asked instead in response.

“Two days,” Sam answered shortly. “Arrived at the bunker this morning. You stayed out the entire time I had to patch up your legs.” If this was several months ago, Dean knew that this was the only way Sam would’ve showed his worry over Dean’s injury, relief that he was awake and responding now.

Now, the only vibes he was getting from Sam was annoyance. That Dean must’ve been a hell of a burden for the past couple of days, Dean was sure.

Dean swallowed. “So? What’s the verdict then, doc?” He asked, forcing his tone to be utterly carefree.

Oh, yeah. If Sam hadn’t been showing his frustration before, he sure as hell was now.

“Bedrest for a few days. Gonna need to keep the bandages on for at least a week.” Sam said stiffly. He looked away as he shifted, pulling his hands out of his pockets.

Dean raised an eyebrow but otherwise kept silent. He knew his brother’s tells, knew that Sam had something to say that wasn’t going to be pleasant for either or both of them. But where once upon a time, Dean would’ve prompted his brother to spit it out already, now… well, now, he wasn’t exactly talking to a brother, was he?

Finally, Sam looked back at Dean, his gaze hard and setting no space for doubt or arguments. “I’ll be around for a while. But soon as you’re on your feet, there’s a case in Arizona. I’m gonna take care of it. It’ll take your legs too long to get back in the game. No matter how hard you push yourself.”

Something was sinking inside Dean, and he couldn’t even pinpoint what, because it felt a lot more than just one organ.

Externally, Dean fought to keep his face as smooth and blank as usual. “Yeah, got it.” Dean bit out. Immediately, chewing himself out internally for not keeping his cool composure, he hurried to rectify the situation. “So… complete bed rest? I don’t we have the sort of stuff needed for me to piss through a tube, extensive as the bunker’s resources may be.” He quipped.

Yet, when Sam glared, there wasn’t a trace of lightness in his expression. Dean swallowed as Sam gesture beside Dean’s bed with a tilt of his chin. Letting his head fall to the side, Dean took in the variety of medical equipment on a table nearby. He wasn’t exactly sure how he’d missed it until Sam pointed it out for him. Especially as, Dean’s eyes tracked the length of a tube hanging onto the side of the table, the other end… disappearing under his blankets, he came to a startling revelation.

His brother’s sudden need for an exaggeratedly longer distance made so much more sense now.

Not looking back at Sam, Dean kept his eyes pinned on the extra packages of sterile dressing. “Got it,” Dean repeated, this time weaker.

Blessedly, his brother just huffed, his only retort needed for the situation. “Yeah. So I’m gonna go rest now. I just needed to check in to see if you were awake. There’s some food there for you,” Dean turned his head to the other side. Sure enough, there was a closed tray and a water bottle on his nightstand, along with a small bottle Dean assumed to be painkillers. “Holler if you need anything.” They both knew Dean wasn’t going to call, that they wouldn’t want him to unless the bunker was coming down around them.

“Night,” Dean said, but Sam had already disappeared from his doorway. A few seconds later, he could hear what Dean was sure to be Sam’s bedroom door slam shut.

Dean sighed, and then froze as tendrils of ice crept up his legs.

“Looks like it’s just you and me again, Dean.” Abaddon grinned, teeth sharp, predatory, and glinting dangerously from where she was crouched at the foot of his bed.

Dean’s eyes darted back to the doorway as if Sam would magically be there and chase Abbadon away with his mere presence. But of course, no such thing, his immediate vicinity glaringly empty of overgrown little brothers.

“Oh, don’t be like that now,” Abaddon swatted his leg, albeit barely making contact, forcing Dean’s attention back onto her as she glided upward, sitting at his side. “I just want to keep you company.” Her long red nails trailed a path down his sheets, stopping when she met with plastic.

“Don’t you dare–” Dean hissed, panic flaring bright. He didn’t exactly know what Abaddon intended to do with him, but in no universe was he keen on finding out what she could have had in mind that involved a tube inserted into his dick.

Abaddon’s eyebrow shot up. “He speaks!” She exclaimed victoriously. Before Dean could figure out what to make of that, she grabbed onto the pipe and  _ yanked. _

Dean gasped as white exploded over his eyes again. His ears rang sharply, nerves combusting below his waist. Lightning bolts ran up and down the length of his spine. His head wasn’t spared either, blood rushing up and making his skull feel like it’d shrunk a size, seconds away from bursting at the seams. It took an eternity for the pain to ebb away, leaving Dean conscious and frankly, surprised about it. Although, when he regained his hearing, it took Dean an embarrassingly long moment to realize he was still emitting moans through his sealed lips at a pitch so high his throat strained.

When he could bring himself to open his eyes, Dean was simultaneously relieved to see that he was now completely alone… yet also anguished when the hallway outside his room remained stubbornly dark.

With great difficulty, Dean shamefully buried his emotions as deep as he could, and then tried to go back to sleep.

‘Tried,’ being the operative term. Sleep remained elusive, and Dean didn’t get a single wink, even after he’d popped way too many painkillers to be safe. He knew, without having to look into a mirror, that the lack of sleep would’ve been visible on his face to a blind man. But at least he didn’t have to worry about Sam bringing it up, he didn’t think. Which was good, Dean told himself.

He was still feeling unsettled when, hours later, Sam went for his morning run, the sounds echoing throughout the bunker. Of course, Abaddon took advantage of his brother’s departure and appeared not a second after the bunker’s main door closed loudly.

She hummed as she perused the medical equipment still on the table. “How long do you think we have before Sammy boy gets back?” She shot him a look from the sides of her eyes. “Unless… he isn’t? Maybe he already left, decided the hunt  _ simply couldn't wait…” _

Dean forced himself to take deep, even breaths. On his arm, the Mark began to throb like a ticking time bomb.

oOo

Throughout the day, Abaddon didn’t really  _ do  _ anything. She just… talked. Except, she didn’t – just. Talk. Abaddon was far too touch for it to have been a pleasant conversation. However, it wasn’t just the cold flashes her wandering hands promised. It was the vile filth she spewed every time she opened her mouth, assaulting Dean with lie after lie.

That was all it really was, though, ultimately. Just bitter falsehoods that didn’t immediately strike Dean’s heart, not at all. Demons lied all the time, and it wasn’t like Abaddon was above any of the rest of her kind.

Several long hours later, late enough that it was probably late morning, really, and Sam had yet to return, Dean stopped trying to convince himself of how everything Abaddon was saying wasn’t the bitter truth. It was then, that sleep mercifully took him under.

oOo

_ Flashes. Bursts of heat – not that that was unusual. No. This heat was wet. Hot blood and sweat dripping onto Dean from above. It pooled over his eyes, only to collectively drop like a waterfall, blinding him. _

_ Dean panicked. Breaths coming in short bursts, not enough copper tainted air to expand his butchered, exposed lungs all the way. _

_ From somewhere far off to the side, a woman’s delicate laugh broke through everyone else’s screams. Sharp nails dragged a line down the skin behind his ear, collecting clumps of bloodied hair and flesh. _

_ Dean was left feeling paralyzed – his nerves freezing and shattering within him. _

_ “Oh, Dean,” her all too familiar whisper, from right beside his restrained head. Through the ice crackling as it formed within his ear canal, he heard her continue, lips brushing against his ear. _

_ “Who do you have who’s gonna want to save you now, Dean?” _

_ His ear crumbled, dropping free in a shower of icy particles. _

oOo

Dean’s eyes flew open. He promptly leaned to the side and threw up. From where she was seated on his desk, one leg dangling, one hand playing with a blade – did she always have that? – Abaddon tittered.

“Sweet dreams, Dean?” She mocked in a sing-song voice.

“Shut up,” Dean muttered. He made to get up, but then came to an abrupt stop when his legs reminded him what a bad idea that was. “Shit.” He hissed, flopping back onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling. Sonovabitch, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this useless. Except, no, he could. There had been too many situations similar to the one Dean was in now, and none of them were exactly happy memories.

The Mark pulsed. A contrast to his dreams, it burned hot. Too hot – for a split second, Dean couldn’t make sense of what hurt more: his aching legs, or his arm that was pretty much radiating its own source of heat, Dean mused.

“I think my all-time favorite was when Sammy boy ran off… Flagstaff, right?”

Dean stiffened. He knew he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t… but Dean would blame the pain later for his current moment of weakness.

He turned his head so he could glare at Abaddon.

“What the hell’re you talking about?”

Abaddon froze, the blade having been absently twirled around so far coming to a halt. Slowly, a shark-like grin stretched her lips wide as she just as slowly turned her head to look back at Dean, meeting his glare evenly.

“Why, when Sammy ran off under your watch! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten – the way John treated you, well. I was pretty sure that wouldn’t be the kind of memory to be easily forgotten.”

“Shut up,” Dean hissed. His hands curled into tight fists, making the Mark pulse harder. “Dad didn’t treat me like  _ anything  _ you’re getting at.”

Abaddon scoffed, flipping the blade in her hand repeatedly again. The smooth movements displayed presumably unconsciously was hypnotic. “Oh, John treated you like ‘nothing’ alright.” She suddenly jumped off the desk, striking the blade downwards so sharply, it embedded itself into the wood loudly, left upright as Abaddon crept close menacingly. “He gave you the silent treatment, didn’t he? No, wait – better than that, he practically pretended you didn’t exist!”

“Shut your mouth.” Dean gritted out.

“Or what?” Abaddon shot mindlessly. Still, she stopped a foot away from his bed, Dean nonetheless glad for the distance, meager as it was. “Makes you wonder, how he didn’t even look at you… do you think he couldn’t stand the sight of his failure of a son? The son who had  _ one  _ job, how could he trust you with anything more after that? Hell,” Abaddon started to leisurely pace the length of his room, thoughtful eyes directed to the ceiling. “How could he trust you to continue vigilantly safeguarding his most precious thing in the world after Mary – Sammy boy?”

“I said shut up.”

“Maybe that’s why he didn’t look at you. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d laid a hand on you, but maybe there was still some humane part of him that was worried that just then, he wouldn’t have been able to stop.” Abaddon suddenly ceased walking to throw her head back and laugh, loud, unrestrained, and striking Dean to the very bones. “Let’s be real here, though. You probably would’ve preferred a beating that wouldn’t have stopped until you had one foot in the grave over daddy dearest ignoring his – should’ve been – ever-faithful soldier–”

“I said,  _ shut up!”  _ Dean roared. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t  _ see, _ everything disappearing behind a thick, hazy, red curtain. The Mark was screaming, and over the rush of his blood, it was all he could hear, screaming and  _ wailing  _ for him to jump up, pounce, gut, slash, tear,  _ killkillkill  _ –

“Dean?”

Everything came to a standstill. The screaming, the red, his blood rushing so fat there definitely had to be several somethings bursting – it all stopped. Chest heaving with exerting as if he’d just speed-dug a grave, Dean raised his anxious gaze to see Sammy standing at the doorway. Sam was holding the doorknob in one fist, a gun in the other.

Abaddon was, unsurprisingly, nowhere in sight.

“Dude, what the hell?” Sam exclaimed.

“What?” Dean snapped, albeit gruffly.

“Wh–you shouted.” Sam deadpanned. Now that he’d taken in the lack of any immediate danger for himself, his stance relaxed, hand relinquishing the doorknob as Sam every so slightly leaned back in place.

Dean swallowed, clenching his jaw. He studiously fought the urge to look away. “Nightmare.” He stated stiffly. But sure enough, apart from a brief, suspicious glance, Sam didn’t push. Rather, he merely nodded, a jerky movement indicating acknowledgment, his only response to the matter.

“Well. I still haven’t finished making lunch,” Sam said, oblivious to the alarm Dean felt at his words. Sam was cooking?! But it also answered a question Dean hadn’t thought of yet, not for a while anyway. Abaddon really managed to shake him in the two or so hours that she’d appeared in his dreams, so there was no way it could bode well for Dean in the future. Not if he was supposed to be  _ resting  _ to heal up faster. “I’ll check your bandages in a bit after I’m done before we eat.” Sam briskly informed, tearing Dean away from his thoughts.

“Alright,” Dean said, sounding more tired than he was willing to reveal. Not that it mattered, though, because Sam was already walking away.

oOo

Changing his bandages was an ordeal Dean fervently wished he didn’t have to undergo every again. At least, not if he was conscious. Or sober. However the exercises Sam forced him into may have worked, it was still probably a good thing for everyone involved that there were no weapons near Dean.

It wasn’t that the movements were excruciating or anything – except for how they kind of were – they were simple enough actions that were more to ensure Dean’s muscles didn’t go completely stiff from disuse. Logically, the exercises wouldn’t have taken any effort whatsoever, if Dean wasn’t bedridden.

But what really made the whole situation worse than it had any right to be, was Sam’s completely detachment to the whole thing. It was like Sam’s lack of concern or sympathy, the usual emotions he’d display one way or another was working to drive a knife he’d long ago stabbed his heart with, deeper.

Lunch couldn’t have come soon enough, but when Sam set the tray of food on Dean’s lap, he couldn’t prevent the dismay from showing on his face.

“Rabbit food? Really?” He asked, looking up at Sam. Sam glanced at him from where he was messing with a bag of – 

Dean averted his eyes. Forget the burns on his legs, Dean wanted to take a piss independently without his brother’s interference first.

“Cholesterol and grease aren’t going to improve your health as fast and efficiently like a meal laden with the proper nutrients. Especially considering you’re probably highly deficient of a bunch of vitamins. Believe me, your body’s gonna thank me by the end of this week if you keep eating right.” Sam said, annoyance heavily lacing his tone.

Dean grimaced. Glaring at his brother, he opened his mouth to shoot a snappy retort when two things happened at once.

One: his stomach growled. Loudly.

And two: right at that moment, Sam finally stood from his previously crouched, half-squatting position, a bag full of yellow liquid in his gloved hands.

Dean did not gag. Dean did — begrudgingly — lower his head and busy himself by shoveling food into his mouth.

At least he didn’t have to worry if his kitchen was on fire or not with all the raw veggies he was being forced to consume.

oOo

Sam must have used magic. It was the only possible explanation. Exactly a week later, Dean was up and about, feeling much better than he probably should considering how damaged his legs still were.

Spell or not, though, Dean wasn’t going to mention a friggin’ thing when he was able to walk to the restroom on his own — mostly — and take care of his business like any other average Joe. Dean had no qualms with being an average sort of guy, especially not when it came to him needing to take a goddamned piss.

His happiness over his regained independence, however partial, was soon overshadowed. Because apparently, now that he could walk, Sam was leaving. Granted, Dean understood the need for urgency when it can’t go a hunt… yet, he couldn’t deny that it was feeling too much like Sam was running away from him. Which, Dean could also get, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. And Dean was still injured enough to admit that, if only to himself.

Meanwhile, Abaddon was having a field day. Dean still couldn’t figure out her selective presence when Sam was around. But she was here right now, grinning wolfishly as she lounged, sprawled out, on a chair while Sam collected the last few files he needed from the bunker’s library. Dean was watching silently from the doorway. He didn’t bother trying to make conversation, and Sam didn’t bother attempting to clear the tension in the air.

Eventually, Sam was all packed and ready to go. Heaving his duffle onto a shoulder, Sam tucked his pistol into the back of his waistband, easily concealing it under a multitude of layers.

He was just about to exit the library when Dean called out, still at the doorway and not moving an inch. Sam halted, partially turning to cock a silent eyebrow at Dean.

Dean opened his mouth and then paused. He was probably only going to get rebuked for this, but… Dean squared his shoulders, looking determinedly at his brother. “Take care.” He said.

Sam stared at him, expression unreadable behind narrowed eyes. Yet, miraculously, he simply nodded, and then turned back around. Dean didn’t look away from his brother’s departing figure once until he disappeared behind the heavy door of the bunker.

“Aw.” Trust Abaddon to be the one to break the silence Dean would’ve been happy to drown in. “How touching. But I think it’s finally time to face the truth, Dean!” She abruptly stood. “It’s just you and me now.”

“Oh, joy,” Dean muttered. He didn’t look at Abaddon as he stiffly made his way back to his bedroom. It was probably time to change his bandages again, and that nasty smelling ointment —gag-inducing as it was — still worked wonders, especially overnight, and needed reapplying. The only other downside was how sticky it left him feeling. And not even in the fun way, too.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re ignoring me now, Dean,” Abaddon called out, but there was a terse warning underlying her otherwise cheery tone.

Dean rolled his eyes. As if he was going to give in that easily. He wasn’t stupid enough to let her have the attention she clearly craved, not anymore. No matter what Sam said about his intelligence — or lack thereof—

“You pay attention when you’re being spoken to, young man!”

Dean froze. There was no way — not when he was still awake anyhow — but  _ no way  _ —

“So help me if you don’t turn around right this instant, Dean.”

Slowly, his muscles creaking and protesting like gears forced to turn the direction they weren’t set for, Dean turned.

And looked right into the blazing eyes of John Winchester.

His father stood a mere few feet away, standing there and commanding respect with his presence so very similar to a decade ago. And similar to two decades ago was an expression of fury on his dad’s face, one that still frequented Dean’s dreams, and one he’d wished he’d never have had to witness again.

“D-dad?” Dean’s voice was but a weak whisper.

“Don’t you call me that.” John snapped. His eyes glinted dangerously. “Don’t you dare think you even  _ deserve  _ to call me that.”

“D-wh-what’re you talking about?” His legs — something — something else must’ve been wrong with them, because they felt like twigs under him, threatening to snap at any second.

“Don’t act stupid, boy!” John yelled. Dean flinched. “Sending sam on a hunt by himself — are you really even my son?”

Shaking, Dean blindly struck a hand out, desperate to find support before he really did fall to his knees. His hands flailed wildly for too long before latching onto a nearby bookshelf. “I didn’t make Sam do anything!” Dean tried to protest. “H-he went on his own, people are dying, dad! I’m no hood with my bum legs, I’d only hold Sammy back!”

“Damn straight,” John grumbled, striding forward. Dean widened his eyes in alarm, but John was already shoving Dean’s shoulders,  _ hard.  _ Losing all balance, Dean stumbled backward, letting go of the bookshelf before it was dragged down with him. It stayed upright if teetering dangerously, but Dean did not.

He landed on his back, all the breath punched out of him in a gasp. His head had followed, and Dean didn’t remember to hold it up in time. Something cracked as his skull met the harsh ground.

Ears ringing, vision shaky, Dean hoped against hope that it was the floor to come out worse, even as he felt something too familiar pool under his neck.

“—od for nothing. Your brother probably doesn’t even need your help, does he? Now, that kid, he can do the research you can’t, string up a monster per day, while you just sit around leeching off of him, don’t you?”

A voice speaking — that voice — that belonged to John, dad was talking and he had to listen — what was Dean doing, lying down?

_ Get up, get up, get up getupgetupgetup— _

Dean’s head whipped to the side as a fist collided with his jaw. Suddenly, even the ringing in his ears disappeared, only to be replaced with piercing silence. Dean couldn’t see, either, though that was probably because his eyes had closed.

One of his arms was lifted into an unrelenting hold, and someone started to drag Dean through the bunker’s halls. 

Why were his eyes closed?

Something dug between his back, between his shoulder blades. A threshold?

Being dragged down steps, head colliding with something again, and then nothing.

oOo

He came to seated, and honestly, Dean was a little surprised. Some part of him was so sure he’d have been strung up, but opening his eyes revealed his location. In a twisted sort of way, being tied to a chair made sense, seeing as he was bound in the bunker’s dungeon. For a guy who just woke up to find himself tied up, Dean was remarkably calm. Regular of an occurrence this may have been. Dean might have had a concussion.

“Decided to join the land of the living, finally?” A voice said from behind him. Dean closed his eyes as he let the memories wash over him. Sam leaving. Abaddon taunting him. His dad showing up out of nowhere.

“You’re not real,” Dean muttered, keeping his eyes closed. “You’re not here. You can’t be.” His tone started out flat, but at the last word, he cracked. Dean hastily shut his mouth with an audible clack as his jaw clenched.

John chuckled, a dark, nasty sound as he came around to stand in front of Dean. “You sure about that, boy? ‘Cause this feels as real as hell. Which – I still haven’t thanked you for that, have I?”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut tighter as if that would make his dad disappear. As if that would hold the tears back until they dispersed. “That wasn’t my fault,” Dean gritted out. “You sold your soul by yourself. Sammy and I – we had no idea what you did – that you were even gonna do that!”

“Didn’t you?” Unbidden, Dean’s eyes flew open of their own accord to look at John in confusion. “C’mon, Dean. We know you’re not the smart one of the bunch, but are you really telling me now that you didn’t have the brains to catch onto everything I was practically laying out for you?”

“I don’t – you–”

“Unbelievable!” John muttered to himself, shaking his head. Dean’s stomach sank as disappointment settled over John’s face, the action as familiar as two old friends greeting each other. “I’ve raised a half-witted hulk.” He glared at Dean, eyes full of contempt. “I spent years in Hell, Dean. Years! And you couldn’t ever bring yourself to rub two measly cells in that shriveled lump you call a brain of yours to figure out what was going on?”

He was going to hurl. Or pass out. Possibly both.

“D–sir, I–”

“Jesus, Dean! Did you even take care of Sammy as I told you to?”

Dean opened his mouth, ready to respond when he found he couldn’t. Because he didn’t, did he? He knew he would never be able to kill Sammy, especially not with his own two hands. He’d have sooner mutilated himself. So no matter how much his dad’s own words had kept him up for many countless nights, Dean knew shooting his brother was out of the question.

Fat load of good it ended up doing, though. Detestful as the thought was – like, physically nauseating – even shooting Sammy probably would’ve sent him to Heaven, eternally damning Dean to Hell aside. Instead, his brother fought with Lucifer for control over his own body and then proceeded to spend who even knew how many years tortured by the archangel in the very depths of Hell.

To say Dean failed his brother, his father, Cas, Bobby, hell if the list went on and on…

“You didn’t, did you?” John’s shrewd voice tore Dean from his thoughts. With growing dread sitting heavily like a lead weight in his stomach, Dean lifted his head to reluctantly meet his father’s gaze.

“You didn’t,” John repeated. It wasn’t a question.

“Dad–”

“I thought I told you not to call me that.”  _ Fuck. _ Dad’s voice was calm –  _ too  _ calm. Dean knew what that meant, learned to understand from early on. Years may have passed, but it was still as effective as it once was. It had driven a younger Dean to wet his pants from fear, and although he had better control over himself now, Dean was still terrified to his very bones.

“You know, maybe I should finally have a talk with Sam. It’s time he really learned about you, after all.” John said, casually starting to walk away.

Dean called out. “D–sir? B–but, Sammy – the case–” Desperation warred with confusion warred with terror – he hadn’t the time to untangle the jumble of emotions within him, much less analyze them. All Dean knew he could focus on was the momentary, mind-numbing relief when John came to a halt just shy of the doorway.

“You think I don’t know how to work a phone, boy?” John said. He didn’t even bother to turn and look at Dean. “Besides. I’ve got at least one boy who knows how to listen to his daddy, and apparently, it sure as hell ain’t you.” And with that, John exited the dungeon and connecting archives, leaving Dean struggling to stay afloat amidst the worry brought on by newfound events.

oOo

John came back with a shit-eating grin on his face. Try as he might to keep his face blank, Dean knew there was no hiding from his dad.

“Sam’s on his way back,” John announced gleefully. “Knew I could count on that boy.”

Dean stayed silent.

“What’s the matter, boy? Cat got your tongue?” Dean just looked at John with blank eyes.

“I don’t have anything to say to you.” He finally said, simply.

John raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, bet you’re saving everything for Sammy.” He walked over to the table they kept in the corner of the dungeon, leaning against it. Still facing Dean, John crossed his arms. “That’s totally fine. You’re gonna need to plan what you’re going to tell your brother, anyhow. But see, I’ve got some more things I’d like to…  _ talk  _ to you about, Dean.”

Dean eyed his father warily. “‘Talk,’” he repeated, disbelievingly. His father’s usual method of ‘talking’ to Dean generally involved less of actual talking – unless to hurl insults – and more fists. Maybe even the occasional, steel-capped, booted foot.

John chuckled. “Don’t look too surprised. Whatever you might think of me in that underdeveloped head of yours–” and yep, there it was, “–this old dog can still learn new tricks. A lot more tricks, mind. Hell isn’t exactly stingy with teaching stuff.” He narrowed his eyes at Dean. “So why don’t you be a cooperative little guinea pig and let your old man have a shot at this whole, ‘communicating’ thing.”

“ …Right.”

Something glinted dangerously in John’s eyes, but it didn’t linger. He did, however, lose whatever remnants of faux joviality he’d for some reason been so far sporting up till now.

“Tell me, Dean,” John began somberly. “Did you really think no one was watching you all those times you’ve screwed things up?” A sickening lurch in his stomach and Dean couldn’t breathe. “That no one was gonna punish you just ‘cause I was, what, out of the picture?” John uncrossed his arms, pushing himself away from the table to stalk forward. “Did you really think that you could just keep on going, messing things up left, right, and center?”

“W-What are you talking about?” Dean breathed out, ribs tight.

“What am I talking about? Where do I even start!” John suddenly yelled. Dean flinched, a minuscule movement, but he knew John didn’t miss it. “Bobby? Ellen and Jo? Rufus? Hell, even all those girls Sammy liked?”

His head felt light, spots dancing in his vision. “They–there were monsters, dad. I was only doing the job!” His voice cracked. Pathetic.

“No, Dean. Doing the job means doing it right.” And the look John cast at Dean with that statement… Dean knew, in that one moment, that his father was going to discredit and dismantle every single case Dean had ever worked, finding fault in them and all the more reason to be disappointed, to hate. “What you did, though? Letting Sam get involved like that? You were supposed to keep an eye on him, Dean! Not let him go and get date-raped by a demon!”

He couldn’t breathe at all – oxygen, he needed air, his lungs–chest– “I was dead.” Dean croaked. “I was dead, and I was in Hell.”  _ Forty years… _

“And whose fault was that?” John immediately snarled. “Got your brother killed – in the first year alone!”

“I thought you wanted me to kill him?” Dean snapped without thinking, albeit weakly. No sooner had the words left his mouth, however, when he paled. John slowly looked straight at him with dark eyes.

“No, Dean. I wanted you to do the job. Not get your brother stabbed in the back right in front of you.”

Dean started shaking his head frantically. “You’re not making any sense.” He muttered lowly. But inside, the weight causing his gut to steadily sink didn’t dissipate. “You’re just making shit up now.” For all his words, Dean didn’t meet his dad’s eyes. And John knew it too, there was no missing it, so how could he?

“Actually, Dean. I’m making all the goddamn sense in the world. So why don’t you hurry up and rid yourself of whatever state of delusion you’re so far in before Sam gets here? You already have so much to talk about – you really think your brother will appreciate you being like this? So difficult and stubborn?”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “I’m the one who's being difficult?” He repeated incredulously. “I’m sorry, but which one of us here has been undeservingly tied up?”

“Not like I could trust you to sit and not runoff.” John retorted, unfazed. “After all, you had no qualms doing that when you were supposed to be looking after Sammy all those years ago.

Dean inhaled deeply, trying to focus on the first part of what his dad said rather than the latter. “Dad, I’ve probably been the most unresisting prisoner you’ve ever had!”

“Oh, please.” John scoffed. “That’s only ‘cause I checked and made sure you had nothing on you to help you get out. I taught you to know your chances well enough.”

“You also taught me how to get out of the most difficult of knots, and how to always hide one last blade where no one would think to look.” Dean managed to say somewhat evenly. “C’mon, dad. I know your faith in me has gotta be in the negatives, but you couldn’t deny when I started being able to get out of your near-impossible tests.”

John narrowed his eyes, but predictably, didn’t refute with the matter this time either. Not when Dean had already given him a reason not to so many years prior. “Fine.” He said. “Then why haven’t you gotten free yet?” John challenged.

Dean cocked an eyebrow. “Haven’t I?” Not bothering to keep up the now useless charade any longer, Dean pulled his arms in front of him, the torn ropes still dangling from his wrists.

John regarded them smoothly, unmoving and silent for several long seconds before looking back at Dean.

“Good job.” He said, finally. “And good timing.”

Dean frowned in confusion, just as someone stood in the doorway. Blocking the light from the hallway, the newcomer cast a long shadow as Dean blinked away from his dad.

“What’s going on here?” Sam asked, barely glancing at Dean as he looked at John.

“Samm–”

“Just Dean and I having a chat, son. But none of that matters right now.” John announced. “In fact, I called you here because it’s come to my attention that if anything,  _ you two  _ need to have a very important talk that’s been a long time coming.”

His father talking over Dean like he wasn’t even there – Dean had enough. Tearing the tattered remnants of the ropes away and uncaring of where they landed when he tossed them to the sides without looking, Dean stood.

Sam’s eyes flickered over to Dean, this time actually looking at him for a beat longer. “What happened to him?” He asked, and, wow. Okay. He knew Sam and him weren’t on the best of terms, but this? This was taking things to an all-new level of extreme. In ways more than one.

“Nothing he didn’t have coming,” John replied coolly.

Dean’s eyes positively bulged at this point. “Are you fucking– Sam! What’re you even doing? Dad is  _ dead,  _ and you’re seriously having a conversation with him like this isn’t completely batshit insane?” Dean exclaimed, gesticulating wildly.

Sam’s eyes narrowed at him. “You’re the one who brought him back, didn’t you, Dean?” He said. “So, yeah, I’m gonna side with dad on this – we really need to talk. And a lot, apparently.” Stepping in further, Sam swung the door shut behind him… effectively trapping all three of them in here, for the time being, Dean realized.

But more specifically… trapping  _ Dean  _ in here with the two of them.

“I didn’t bring dad back from the dead,” Dean said slowly.

Sam only continued to give Dean a disbelieving glance. “Right.” He chuckled humorlessly. “And I’m just supposed to believe that?” He shook his head as he amended, “Believe  _ you _ ?”

Ignoring the yawning pit on his chest, Dean took a step closer to his brother. It didn’t escape his notice, how John just stood back, arms crossed again with a satisfied smirk on his face. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean hedged. “It’s the fucking truth, Sam.”

Sam scoffed, partially turning away as he dragged a hand through his hair. He pursed his lips, and Dean could recognize the signs of his brother barely repressing his anger. Before losing it completely anyway, yet through carefully manipulated words twisted to hurt the harshest.

Sure enough, when he turned back around, Dean could tell all hell was about to break loose.

For him, anyway.

The worst part? Was John standing there, emanating smug vibes of just how much he was relishing this whole show.

“The truth, Dean? Can you even talk without lying through your teeth? Hell, you’d never tell me the God’s honest truth if you thought you could get away with it. So, who is it this time?” Sam asked. He closed the distance between them to shove at Dean. Dean teetered dangerously, abruptly reminded of the state his legs were still in as he struggled for a beat too long, trying to keep himself from falling flat on his ass. “Who? Your soul? Mine? Or maybe Cas’s grace? Or, hell, maybe it’s just some other kind of deal, hm?”

“Sam–” Dean started warningly, raising a hand – to placate, to push Sam back, he honestly didn’t know. Sam just continued to barrel over him.

“Maybe it’s our memories this time. Our ability to feel and react like actual, functioning humans – not that you’d know what that’s like. Or,” Sam grinned, absolutely frightening Dean with how deranged he looked. “Did you whore out one of us again?”

“Sam, stop it!” Dean yelled, pushing forward, and apparently, his raised hands had decided to go with pushing at Sam’s chest, as if the physical shove would work to mentally jolt his brother back to his senses. “I did nothing, you hear me? Dad just showed up at the bunker, knocked me around, and tied me up in our dungeon, and you’re questioning  _ me _ instead of dad? You’re just gonna take the word of a dead man – that might not even be our dad, Sammy! – over your own brother?” Dean continued to yell.

Sam stared at him with pity, as if he couldn’t have been any more pathetic. “Dad never lied to me, Dean,” he said in a calm voice, the stark contrasts of their tones ringing eerily sharp in the dungeon. “You did.”

Dean staggered back as if Sam had dealt him a physical blow. But, Sam always knew how and when to pull his punches – or not, so his words were just as good as a merciless strike.

Sam blithely went on. Forget giving Dean time to respond – he wasn’t sure he was ever going to be able to bounce back from the impact of Sam’s words anytime soon. “And I thought I’d already told you – this whole ‘brothers’ shtick? Wasn’t working out.” Sam’s eyes turned sharp. “I mean, I can’t believe you. I thought that for once in your life you’d actually learn. But you really couldn’t take your sorry ass being alone, that you brought dad back to the shitfest of our lives? You couldn’t let me die in peace, you had to tear dad away from his eternal resting too?”

Dean’s legs gave out. He weakly fell back onto the chair, yet unable to look away from his brother. Distantly, Dean finally registered the roaring in his ears as it grew louder, not tolerating being ignored for any longer. He was forced to tear his gaze away from Sam’s to confront the source of the deafening noise. Somehow, for some reason that most likely had to do with Sam’s words obliterating his insides, whatever reaction Dean should have felt was all muted as he looked down and onto the furiously burning Mark.

Oh. For a while, he’d actually managed to forget about its existence. He didn’t think something else could hurt so much that it could overwhelm the Mark of Cain’s torture.

Then again. Trust Sammy to be able to locate and achieve the impossible.

“But fine. I’ll humor you.” Sam said, just the slightest bit dramatic. He turned to John. “How did you get in here anyway? Assuming, of course, Dean didn’t summon you himself or open the bunker’s door for you.”

John straightened, immediately looking more serious as he wiped the smirk off his face, though not hastily. It dug at Dean, the not-so-subtle indication that while John treated him like a child or, worse, a monster they’d hunt down, he’d treat Sam like an equal.

If there was any way for John to be any more demeaning, then Dean had no idea what that would entail. Nor did he want to know, but he didn’t for one second think his father wouldn’t be able to degrade Dean even more humiliatingly so.

“I don’t know.” John frowned. “One moment, I know I was with Mary…” Silence descended upon them as John’s eyes became distant. He swallowed, visibly pulling himself from his thoughts with effort. “Then I’m watching Dean walk away and letting you go on a hunt while talking to some redheaded woman–”

“–He what?–”

“–You could see her?” Two heads simultaneously spun around to glare at Dean. Under the force of their combined fury, varyingly held back, Dean’s breath caught. But then he remembered what John said, and forced himself to his feet.

“What do you mean I could see her?” John sneered, but Sam held up a hand, clearly needing to put a word of his own in.

“You brought a woman into the bunker?” he demanded outrageously.

Dean was shaking his head, but John was cutting in again. Just as well, because Dean was now at a complete loss for words.

“But she wasn’t a woman now, was she?” John deduced, his eyes shifting dangerously. “Because I looked around, and found no trace of anyone else apart from you two camping out here. Almost like she’d just vanished into thin air,” John said. His voice was quiet but it made the air around them ring all the louder with charged tension.

“Dean.” Sam stepped towards Dean but came to stand beside John, the two of them literally lining up against him. It made it harder for Dean to pretend to be oblivious to just how similar his brother was to their dad. “The hell did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Dean hissed over the frantic pounding of his heart.

Dean stumbled backward as Sam shoved him again, harder this time. “Then who the hell did Dad see you chatting up with, huh? A witch? A monster? Or just some skank you picked up from a bar–”

“Excuse you. Your brother’s got his charms for sure, but I think I’d take even being called a demon. Although, Knight of Hell does sound so much more glorious.”

And lo and behold, Abaddon stepped around from behind Sam and John.

In a flash, Sam had his gun out, safety off and aimed right at Abaddon’s head. “You’re dead,” Sam said. He may have been glaring daggers at her, but to Dean, his shock and fear couldn’t be hidden.

“Well, technically, so is John.” Abaddon drawled. Of course, she was completely flippant despite staring down the business end of a gun. Then again, they all knew – except for maybe their dad – that Sam’s gun would do jack squat to her. “But let’s fix that, shall we?” She snapped her fingers, the sound echoing through the dungeon.

For a second, it didn’t look like anything happened. And then there was a horrible, choking-like sound. The brothers shared twin moments of terror as they whipped their heads around to look at their dad, just in time for John to clutch at his throat, blood bubbling past his lips. He fell to his knees, breaking Sam out of his trance. Falling to his own knees as well, Sam’s gun clattered to the ground as he dropped it in favor of wrapping his arms around John’s torso. “What are you doing?” Sam shouted, desperation lacing his already agonized features as John only continued to writhe and struggle harder. “Stop!” In his arms, John coughed, spitting out more blood, viscous red liquid dripping down his shirt. A splatter of it landed on Sam’s sleeve as well.

John gasped. His eyes had been wide open, frantic, as he clawed at his throat. Another cough wracked through his body, and his eyes rolled upwards.

Dean saw white, his vision disappearing even as he heard himself shouting over his father’s rasps, his brother’s pleas… Abaddon’s maniacal laughter, and the beat of the Mark pounding in his head. “Abaddon, stop! Stop this! It’s me you want – leave them  _ alone!” _

Everything stopped.

The crazy clash of sounds died out, and slowly, the white fog lifted from Dean’s vision, leisurely bringing the scene in front of him to view again.

The Mark pulsed, long and steady, in time with his calming heart. It had reached the point of being almost sluggish when Dean registered what he was looking at.

The Mark’s pounding returned with renewed vengeance, reverberating through his head. Lack of oxygen brought Dean to his knees beside Sam and their dad, but deprivation wasn’t the only reason for Dean’s knees to buckle.

Abaddon continued to grin, unhinged, yet calculatingly triumphant even if she managed to keep her mouth shut.

Sam… Dean didn’t know if Sam was breathing either. A tear pooled at the corner of his little brother’s eye. By the time it fell, a cascade of others was rushing to stream down his face as well, all to land on their father’s bloody face.

The pale, bloody face of their entirely unmoving, unbreathing, and equally silent corpse of a dad.

Helpless in a way he didn’t expect, didn’t understand, Dean lifted his head.

Abaddon was nowhere to be seen.

oOo

The funeral was a silent affair. The tension between the two brothers, however, spoke volumes instead for them. While Dean prepared the pyre, he steadfastly avoided Sam/ Words were unneeded to be said for Dean to know his presence wouldn’t be tolerated. To put it mildly.

And even when the pyre was set up, he stood in front of it, waiting. Time blithely passed on before Sam deigned to appear. Their father’s shrouded body in his arms. Dean watched the white until it began to blur his eyes.

Sam kept his gaze pinned straight ahead, somewhere further beyond the pyre. Distanced. Physically, mentally, and emotionally.

He set John’s body on the pyre but didn’t let go. His jaw clenched, yet Dean still forced himself to take in the tense line of his brother’s shoulders, Sam’s head dropping.

The wind sang as it accompanied Time, leaves rustling. Dean heard none of it.

Finally, Sam pulled himself free, and Dean looked back to their father’s body as Sam drew back.

The distance between the brothers felt to Dean like the chasms of the Grand Canyon. Visible, but highly unlikely to ever be filled. And it wasn’t just Dean’s injured legs that held him back from attempting to close the distance.

Taking a step forward, Dean reached into his pocket.

The lighter flicked to life before being thrown, Dean’s final parting gift.

The pyre burned, along with his legs. The Mark roared, demanding satisfaction.

oOo

“You.”

Dean had long since retreated into the bunker. Cradling a beer, he didn’t drink from it though, gaze unseeing. Burning embers were too thoroughly seared into his retinas for Dean to be able to see anything else.

Sam’s voice cleared his vision, if temporarily. Dean looked up to see his brother standing at the entrance of the kitchen. He made no move to come in though, and Dean was painfully reminded of a scenario far too similar, but couldn’t have been more different, having occurred a mere week ago.

“You did this.”

“Wh–” But unlike a week ago, Sam was already striding in, murderous intent evident in his eyes. The beer bottle crashed to the ground as Sam grabbed the collar of Dean’s shirt, lifting and spinning in a whirlwind of movement that left Dean dizzy until he was unceremoniously pinned to the wall. He stayed there, Sam’s arm holding him up, ever so slightly pressing into his throat. It made him cough, but it did give Dean time to reorient himself. And realize he had no idea when the last time he ate was.

Well. At least Sam’s wasn’t in danger of being subjected to getting puked on, not when there wasn’t anything in Dean’s stomach for him to upchuck. 

“Sammy…”

“Shut up!” Sam yelled. He slammed Dean against the wall. His head meeting with the wall none-too-gently, Dean’s vision whited out.

From his arm, the Mark flared, furious. A sound not unlike his alarm rang in his ears. Through it all, Sam kept speaking, and Dean unconsciously strained to listen to his brother.

“You had to bring dad back. And then you got him killed  _ again _ .” Sam hung his head, eyes closed in pain as pain overtook his features. Dean’s heart clenched – but the Mark’s angry protests only grew louder. “You couldn’t just leave everything well enough alone?” Sam demanded, eyes opening to resume his disgusted glare. “You’re that desperate – that pathetic, you just can’t accept the truth though, can you?”

Dean’s heart started to sink as he warily eyed his brother. Alarm bells only added to the confusion in his head, so much so that he let his arms hang limply at his sides, long since given up trying to fight his brother’s unrelenting hold. “What’re you going on about, Sam?”

“I’m talking about how, for some goddamn reason, Dean, you just refuse to come to terms with how much we don’t need you,” Sam said mockingly. “We never did. I’ve already told you, I was always the better hunter. All you ever did was hold dad and me back. And as for dad?” He let out a dark, burst of humorless laughter. “Well. You always just seem to get everyone around you killed. Just like you said, Dean. But you couldn’t even spare our own, already dead father?” He exclaimed. “No, you had to go and bring him back from the dead just to get him killed again?”

Dean blanched. “You don’t mean that–” he started.

He was forcefully cut off by Sam slamming him against the wall again. “Yeah, I do!” He yelled. “We never needed you, Dean! But because you’re just too damned clingy to get that through your thick skull, you force yourself on us and make our lives a living hell!” Sam scoffed. “No. Worse than that.” He corrected.

Dean stared. The Mark’s rage was pulsing through his veins, but instead of ignoring it, try to fight back like usual, he let the anger course through him as he grit his teeth, jaw clenched past the point of pain. “You really believe that?” He asked tightly when he could finally see past the white haze temporarily rendering him unable to speak

Sam stared back, something in his gaze searching. Whether or not he found what he was looking for, Sam let him go instead, taking a step back before replying. “Yeah, Dean.” He said softly, but no less serious. “I really do.”

Dean wordlessly nodded. What could he even say? And with the Mark still flooding anger through his veins, overwhelming the pure desolation instead… if Dean gave in and reacted to his base instincts right now, he knew his fists would take over to do the ‘talking’ for him.

Looks like Dean did manage to inherit his dad’s negative attributes just too well.

Inhaling sharply, Dean stepped away from the wall, looking away from Sam. His gaze sharpened when he noticed Abaddon leaning against the wall by the entrance, arms crossed and silently smirking. Except… Sam hadn’t reacted to her yet, even though she was clearly in his line of sight.

“You need to get out.” Dean whirled around, momentarily confused as to who just spoke. But, no, Sam was still looking at him pointedly, which meant…

“Sammy…” Sam shook his head, taking another step back.

“No. I tried working with you, but clearly, even your presence is still enough to screw us all over. Enough is enough, Dean.” Sam stared at him decisively. “Get out.”

God help him, but standing there utterly defeated, and knowing there was nothing he’d say that would be of any use, nothing he  _ could _ say, Dean obligingly turned around…

When Abaddon made her move.

There was a sickening sound of metal impaling flesh, a heart-shattering gasp…

By the time Dean looked back at Sammy, Abaddon was already withdrawing her blade – the same one she’d embedded in his desk now in her hand, stained with blood,  _ Sammy’s  _ blood – and his little brother was falling to his knees, hand helplessly pressed to the growing red stain on his shirt.

“_NO!_” Dean threw himself forward, the cement floor grazing his knees as he slid forward, only just catching Sam in time from faceplanting. “Sam–Sammy…” Dean hiccuped. The burning of his legs gone unheeded, he pushed his brother, cupping his face, trying – hoping to peer into Sammy’s eyes.

Sam’s eyes that had long since closed. “No…” Dean muttered. Flashes of decade long memories threatened to carry Dean away. Swallowing, he held on, physically readjusting his grip on his brother.

Sam slumped, lifeless.

Dean cradled him to his chest, tears now blurring his vision. “No, no, no, no…” Rocking back and forth, Dean buried his face in the side of Sam’s head, his brother’s overgrown hair absorbing the tears.

Mock tsking noises made Dean raise his head.

Through foggy white tears, his eyes narrowed.

“Oh, Dean,” Abaddon sing-songed. “You really should have just left when you had the chance.” She sat on the table, lazily sprawling out. “Now look what you did. Failed as backup – got your dad killed. Failed the  _ one job  _ John put on you – got your brother killed.” Abaddon cocked her head, leaning back on her hands. “I’m tempted to agree with Sam – who next? Maybe that angel of yours?”

Dean didn’t so much as lose control as much as he let the Mark take over.

He roared as he pounced forward. It was like playing in slow-motion – watching Abaddon’s face transform from her careless triumph, to shock, to fear, grim resignation… yet, the ever-present gleam in her eyes refused to fade as the knife practically flew from her hands to his – 

He lunged and didn’t hold back.

Logically, he knew the blade wouldn’t be able to hurt her. But pressing the knife up to the hilt in her chest and watching her jaw drop as she lit up like a firecracker from the insides… For once, Dean felt an all-encompassing, sick form of triumph himself. It didn’t last long though, so with another yell, he pulled the knife out in one smooth motion, and swung again.

Ears yet again ringing, it took too long for Dean to realize he was growling. Neither did he care or stop the guttural sounds once becoming aware of it. If anything, he relished in it as he struck again, and again, and again. Abaddon’s bloody corpse was by now gaping open on the kitchen table, intestines were drawn out with every withdrawal of the blade, crushed as he dug back in. Blood and gore were being flung everywhere, and still, Dean kept on. Uncaring of the blood and other bits splattering onto his face, even when it dripped down his forehead and threatened to blind him. He was almost close to completely hacking away at Abaddon’s spine and give him two split halves to carry out his vengeful fury on, and the thought only spurred him on.

A hand landed on his shoulder.

Dean swung around, and instinct should have had him rearing back, but it was too late, he was too close…

Dean stared in horror at the blade still in his bloodied hand, and the blade now firmly embedded in Sam’s side. Frightened – no,  _ terrified  _ – Dean raised his eyes, vision shaking along with every other nerve in his body. He looked into Sam’s burned-out eyes, blood dripping down his brother’s cheeks.

“You need to stop.” He was saying but Sam – his mouth wasn’t moving.

“What?” Dean whispered, eyes flickering between smoking eyes, blood – blood  _ everywhere  _ –

“Dean, you need to stop,” Sam repeated. His lips still weren’t moving, and the hand on his shoulder suddenly released its death grip. Dean gasped, looking down, but in a flash, the very same hand was wrapped around his neck, squeezing.

“Sammy…” Dean wheezed, voice dying out as the hand tightened.

“Snap out of it, Dean. C’mon–

_ “Wake up!” _

With a hoarse shout as his very soul felt like it was being crushed, Dean blinked.

Around him, the bunker wavered.

“Dean!” He blinked again, still struggling to breathe, but looked back down. Abaddon’s body flickered, and then disappeared completely, none of the traces of bloody bits or chunks of flesh remaining behind.

“C’mon, Dean!”

Blink. The bunker disappeared. Dean raised his gaze, watching transfixed as Sam grinned. Smoke was still wafting from his scorched eyes, blood staining his drooping cheeks, the flesh seemingly melting off, and onto the few teeth he revealed to have left.

_ “Sir, please, you need to leave.” _

Sam opened his mouth, his jaw-dropping as if unhinged with how far open his mouth was, more so than normal. Black ooze bubbled, frothy, up from his mouth and dribbled down his chin.

“ _ Dean! _ ”

Dean blinked, and everything went white as the Mark screamed.

Screeching noises, machines beeping frantically, voices, so many voices, but his brother’s louder than everyone else’s, yelling. Jabbing, burning, he was on fire, Dean choked. Someone restraining him, Dean thrashed, falling to his knees. A belt around his chest, strapping him down, Dean screamed.

oOo

Blink.

White. Beeping. Soreness.

Blink.

His vision clearing at a turtle’s pace, Dean turned his head.

Sam was sitting on a chair beside his bed. Head in his hands. Blood-free.

“S’am?” Dean rasped out.

Sam’s head snapped up, hazel eyes wide, dark bags underlining them. Breathing out, Sam leaned forward in his chair.

“Dean?”

Alive. His brother was alive. They were in a hospital, and Dean had a cannula down his nostrils. He had a feeling that wasn’t the only tube attached to him.

“What–”

“You fell into a burning fireplace,” Sam said flatly, leaning back. His knuckles were white from how hard he was gripping the armrests of his chair.

“Huh?”

“The ghost?” Sam said. “Emily Hawkins? You were distracting her while I salted and burned the bones. She threw you in the fireplace before I got her, though.” Sam reminded. His fingers tightened, the leather squeaking, before letting go. He rested his arms on his lap instead. “Burned the hell out of your legs. Must’ve knocked your head pretty bad too. You were mumbling something about Abaddon–”

“What?” Dean whipped his head to look at his brother, ignoring his brother’s vehement protests for the action.

Sam frowned. “I don’t know. I thought you were trying to tell me that you’d seen her or something. Before I could ask you more questions though, you passed out. I was this close to calling Crowley for back up in case you did see her–”

“Crowley?” Dean repeated dumbly.

Sam’s eyebrows went up. “Yeah…? The demon who’s supposed to get you the First Blade so you can gank her? With the only weapon that only you can use to kill her?” Sam enunciated slowly.

Dean’s mouth worked uselessly. He was getting dizzy with what Sam was telling him. Sam, his brother, who was still alive, and implying that the past week plus didn’t happen  _ at all… _

“The past week…” Dean mumbled to himself. “It was more than a week ago,” he exclaimed weakly, not looking at Sam.

“Dean, we finished the hunt four days ago,” Sam said, a frown on his face, growing deeper by the second. “After you passed out, you wouldn’t wake up or respond. I had to haul ass here.” Sam vaguely gestured at their surroundings. White, and machines still beeping faintly in the background.

The Mark pulsed as Dean was hit with a sense of Deja Vu.

“You were touch and go for a while–” Sam continued, “–went into cardiac arrest last night, actually. The doctors couldn’t explain what was happening. Dean, you okay?” Sam questioned, but Dean didn’t reply, his attention long since having shifted.

Leaning against the back of Sam’s chair and picking at her nails with an all too familiar blade, Abaddon looked straight at Dean and grinned.

Slowly, she winked.


End file.
